


Once upon a journey

by Elesianne



Series: Stories for Fëanorian week 2017 [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, First Meeting, Romance, Travel, Years of the Trees, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-03 00:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10231361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elesianne/pseuds/Elesianne
Summary: Fëanor runs into someone on a solitary journey and finds that he doesn't mind the company.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have wanted to write about Nerdanel and Fëanor's first meeting for a while, so I did that for today, their day of [Fëanorian week](https://feanorianweek.tumblr.com/). Tolkien says of Nerdanel that _'[i]n her youth she loved to wander far from the dwellings of the Noldor, either beside the long shores of the Sea or in the hills; and thus she and Fëanor had met and were companions in many journeys'_ (HoME 10). So relevant prompts are Marriage and Travelling.
> 
> Fëanor and Nerdanel are barely more than teenagers here.

The first time they meet they startle each other, for neither was expecting to meet anyone. Both have travelled for days with no other company than the song of summer birds and the furtive movements of small animals in the undergrowth.

Fëanáro sees her first, a rather long time before she sees him. From very far away he can only tell, from disturbances in the water and the glittering of waterdrops in the air, that there is something moving in the river ahead of him. He wants to see what kind of an animal it is and he doesn't want to make it bolt so he walks closer along the riverbank with quiet steps, careful not to shift the earth and cause small rockslides into the river.

He doesn't think for a second that it could be another person since to his knowledge no one else comes to this part of the land, this rocky patch of near-barren wasteland between the mountains and the sea, far north of Alqualondë and other settlements of the Falmari. He hasn't seen another person for days, and when he realises the figure in the river is one of his kind, he stands frozen in place in amazement.

Not least because it's unmistakably a woman and, as could be expected from someone wading into a stream, she is naked. No, not naked, he realises after a second. Nearly naked, clothed but only in a undyed linen shift that clings to her form, wet from the splashing of water. She seems to be splashing about more than is strictly necessary, reminding Fëanáro of his own joy at finding a river or lake to swim and bathe in after a long day, or indeed many days, of travelling.

Half of him is saying that he needs to do something other than just stare – to leave, or to call out to her in greeting, probably while covering his eyes – but the other half, the ever-curious half that alternately gets him into trouble and into new discoveries, is busy studying the woman in the wide but shallow river.

He can see little of her face for she is not facing him, and the long curtain of her unbound, curling hair swirls around her while she splashes. It is an unusual colour, he notes with interest, brown shot through with redder strands. He knows few Noldor with hair that colour, though the hair of the famed smith Mahtan who he soon hopes to apprentice for is even redder–

Suddenly the woman is reaching down to pull off her shift, and before Fëanáro can do more than think _oh no_ , she has turned around just enough that she will likely see him.

Desperately he looks around for a place to hide, but there is neither time to hide nor cover on the rock-strewn bank.

Feeling unusually sheepish and hating it, Fëanáro raises a hand in greeting to the very startled-looking woman.

Neither of them says nothing for a while, both studying the other. Fëanáro fears he is blushing, though he is the one fully clothed and she the one standing in a river in nothing but sodden undergarments. And she is as young as he is, just a girl. Nevertheless, once the first moment of startlement has passed, she stands there calmly, has turned to fully face him now, her hands bunched in the hem of her shift slowly letting go.

The calm gaze, the small tilt of the head crowned by russet curls… Fëanáro finds himself the first to utter words.

'Forgive me', he says, raising his voice to cover the distance. 'I didn't think I'd find anyone here. I did not mean to spy on you.'

'I didn't expect to encounter anyone either', the girl replies, and Fëanáro almost flinches at hearing the words of another after so many days of no elven language but his own travelling songs.

His merciless eyes that are always assessing the worth and beauty of things tell him now, after a few more moments' study, that she is not beautiful. Her face lacks the absolute symmetry that marks a perfect beauty, her mouth is too wide as are her brows, and though her ruddy, freckled complexion goes well with her hair, it is hardly fashionable.

Still he has a hard time keeping reluctance out of his voice when he turns away from her and says, 'I'll leave you to bathe in peace.'

'I don't mind you staying', the girl says. Fëanáro turns back with wide eyes and stares at her again.

Now she is blushing, her composure shattered. 'I did not mean – for you to stay while I bathe. But I wouldn't mind company for the evening. We could share a campsite if you want.'

He had meant to keep going for a couple of hours longer, but the idea of staying in the girl's company is appealing. He must be missing civilisation more than he thought.

'I would like that', he replies.

'Very good', she says, and smiles. Her smile is an interesting thing, a little crooked and very gentle. 'Would you get a fire started while I wash my hair? It gets cold this far north, and it would be lovely to dry off by an already roaring fire.'

Fëanáro doesn't like people telling him what to do, but the girl's reasons are sound enough. And he still has some vegetables and mushrooms, gathered before the country became barren, in his pack. They would make good dinner for two as a soup, and to make soup he needs a fire anyway.

'I will build a fire', he promises.

She points to the direction where she has chosen a campsite and left her things and Fëanáro heads that way.

He finds her campsite, gathers firewood – mostly dried branches of the low bushes that are the only thing that grows here in abundance – and has a fire going and the soup bubbling over it by the time the girl returns, dressed in her damp shift again. Fëanáro realises that her clothes are here in a pile by her pack and bedroll, and that he doesn't know her name.

He can ask her for it later. Now he suggests that he should go to the river to wash the worst dirt of the journey off himself while she dresses. He almost succeeds in not blushing while making the offer.

'Take your time', the girl says. 'The water is lovely. I can watch your… is that soup?'

'Yes. There should be enough for both of us.'

The girl smiles her thanks; Fëanáro finds his towel and goes to the river.

He does take his time bathing. The water is lovely, it is true, but he is also determined to make himself fit for company since he is to have more than fireflies as companions for the night, and it has been days since he last found either the patience or a suitable body of water to wash properly.

'I'm Fëanáro', he tells her when he gets back to camp.

'Prince Fëanáro.' She inclines her head in a small gesture of respect.

Of course she would know who he is. It is something of a disappointment anyway.

'Not here in the wild.' He squeezes water out of his hair. 'Just Fëanáro.' He finds it pleases him.

'Very well then, Fëanáro.' The girl stirs the soup, takes a taste. 'I'm Nerdanel, and I think the soup needs a moment longer.'

They sit there around the fire, on their bedrolls for the ground is cold and stony, and she asks him why he has come this far north.

'I am tracking the change in stone type. And looking for new minerals – few of our people have come this far, so it is likely I might find some. I already found a few, but so far nothing that seems useful. I'll have to do experiments with them, though. Of course.'

'Of course', she echoes.

'And why are you here, what is the purpose of your travelling?' For she must have one. It's a very long journey to this far north, close to the wastes of Araman; no one comes here on an idle stroll. Fëanáro is impressed with her courage and determination that she has come all this way alone. And with her hair that in the firelight glows with red and gold…

'I am looking for new shapes.'

'New shapes?' Fëanáro repeats, bemused, and nervous that he might discover that she is in spite of all appearances a silly girl pursuing empty fancies.

'For my sculpture.' Nerdanel has been combing her hair with her fingers and now tames it into an over-the-shoulder braid, restraining its red-tinged glory. 'I want to be a sculptor, you see, and I am always looking for new shapes to include in my works. Unfamiliar landscape works well as inspiration.'

'Do you work with clay, or with stone?'

'Both, and I can cast metal as well. I use all three materials for statues.'

Fëanáro is ever more impressed with her.

'You seem surprised', Nerdanel says in the manner of one who has often had to see the same surprise on people's faces when she tells them her chosen profession.

'I am, for as you must know, few women work with metal and stone. Yet I am delighted to discover one such woman in this northern wildness.'

Nerdanel's smile tells him that his astonishment has been forgiven, not that he had been seeking forgiveness. He simply said what was true, what he felt. 'You may have heard that I am also interested in learning smithwork. Well, to learn more of it. I have some skill already.'

'So I have heard. I myself have much to learn, as well, though my father has been teaching me all my life. He never treated me any differently from my brother.'

Fëanáro would ask her who her father is, in case he has heard of him, but at that moment they discover that their soup is ready and need to busy themselves with the preparations required for eating a meal in the wildness.

They have no trouble finding things to talk about while they eat. It turns out that they took very different routes to end up here in the same spot, so they share with each other all discoveries they made. Fëanáro takes the samples he has gathered out of his pack and shows them to her, and her every comment and the way she turns the pieces of mineral in her hands shows how much she already knows and that she wants to learn more; Fëanáro delights in her curiosity.

After they finish eating and Nerdanel heartily thanks Fëanáro for the meal they go down to the river together to wash the few dishes they used. When Fëanáro passes cups to Nerdanel he notices that her hands are as calloused as his.

Few would want to write songs about the loveliness of her face, but there is much in her to admire, Fëanáro thinks, based on their short acquaintance. She seems independent and capable, smart and inquisitive, and there is a certain kind of beauty, one he appreciates, in her hands that are as strong and sure as a smith's, and in the way she holds herself with confidence but no arrogance.

And she has come alone far into the unknown regions of Aman. Though she seems glad to found unexpected company, Fëanáro is certain she would have been just fine on her own.

They return to the campsite in companionable silence, gathering a little more firewood along the way. Still thinking of long journeys taken alone, Fëanáro asks Nerdanel if she often comes this far.

'Not often, no', she replies. 'I have journeyed this far only once before, up into the mountains that time. Mostly I have explored the land around Aulë's halls where my family lives, but lately that land has begun to feel so small and familiar. So I am taking advantage of finally being old enough to be trusted to wander long distances alone.'

'My father used to be reluctant to let me go this far as well', Fëanáro says as he adds the new wood to the low-burning fire. 'But now he is so preoccupied with my stepmother and the new children, I doubt he even notices how long I'm gone.'

He doesn't bother to explain his unusual, complicated family to Nerdanel, for though she doesn't live in Tirion she is a Noldo and must know at least some things about the royal family.

Nerdanel says nothing, and after a moment Fëanáro raises his gaze from the fire and looks at her. There is in her eyes something soft but just far enough from pity that it doesn't enrage him; he will not tolerate pity even from clever girls he finds in rivers.

They just gaze at each other for a while through the flames, sitting on opposite sides of their shared campfire. After a longer moment Nerdanel says that her father worries about her still and tried to entice her to stay at home by setting her an interesting challenge with copper casting.

'Copper?' Fëanáro asks sharply, reminded again that he still hasn't asked her about her family. He thinks he might know her father's identity now: the best-known coppersmith among the Noldor is Mahtan who Fëanáro has already been reminded of today, for in addition to his work with the red metal he is famous for his hair, red like Nerdanel's.

'Yes, I am Mahtan's daughter', Nerdanel confirms.

'Then my father has written to yours, asking if I can be apprenticed to him.' Fëanáro finds that his mouth is a little dry. 'Did you not know that?'

'No.' Nerdanel draws her russet brows together. 'But then my father is a man of few words and doesn't like to talk about unfinished business. And I have been travelling for four weeks now. The matter must have not been settled when I left home.'

'My father's letter was sent just before I set out three weeks ago.' Fëanáro leans back, inexplicably relieved. Nerdanel hadn't known, hadn't been pretending anything.

'I really hope your father will accept me as an apprentice', he says. 'I believe he isn't the best only with copper but with stone as well, and supremely skilled with many other metals as well.'

'And you wish to learn to work them all?'

'Yes, I want to learn everything. I've been studying language lately, but that – that isn't enough. I want to learn to create something concrete, something shining and beautiful.' He tries not to blush, a little embarrassed about the passion in his voice but unwilling to apologise for it.

'My father is happy to teach those who truly want to learn', Nerdanel says. 'The only reason he might not take you on is that he already has several apprentices.'

'I would work the hardest of all. I may be a prince but I'm no stranger to hard work.'

'I believe that, and I can tell that from our conversations tonight that you certainly burn to learn. I will speak with him on your behalf when I get home if he hasn't already decided to accept you.'

'Thank you', says Fëanáro from his heart.

They keep talking about metal and stone and the things of beauty and usefulness that one can create out of them. The distant treelight is all silver now and the air is cool, but their merrily crackling little fire keeps the worst of the cold at bay. When the fire begins to burn low again both Fëanáro and Nerdanel dig cloaks from their packs and bundle up in them.

'The stars are so bright here', Fëanáro notes and lets himself fall slowly back to lie on the ground. The ground is covered in short, coarse grass, but he can't feel it through his thick cloak, and he enjoys looking up at the sky and letting starlight fill his universe.

It seems that Nerdanel feels the same way, for she walks around the fire and joins him on the grass. 'It is one of the best things in being so far away from all other lights', she sighs. 'One can begin to imagine, in a poor way at least, how it must have been for our people in Endórë before they followed Oromë to this land. How it was to live in starlight.'

'I have heard songs about that time but you are right, being here is a better inspiration for imagining it than any song.'

'I am glad that you happened to find me, even if it was in the middle of a river', Nerdanel says, a smile in her voice. 'I have been happy to travel alone, to discover that I can make my way this far from home on my own, but I have enjoyed our conversation so. And now, sharing the stars with you…'

Fëanáro has come to think of himself as a master of language but he finds it difficult to think of the right words to answer her. In the end he says simply, 'I am glad I found you as well.'

They gaze at the stars in silence for a while. Fëanáro enumerates the constellations in his head and thinks Nerdanel might be doing the same.

When he has gone through all the stars he tells her of a childhood project.

'I once made it my mission to learn the names of every star and constellation within a week without anyone teaching me, so I took a star chart and climbed up on the palace roof and taught myself. It wasn't easy to see the stars with all the treelight and the city lights around, though.'

'Did you still succeed in your mission?'

'Yes.' Fëanáro raises his hand and draws constellations in the air above him. 'It felt like such a big achievement.'

'Doesn't it anymore?'

'There are bigger things, I know now.' He rolls over to his front, ending up closer to Nerdanel, and turns to look at her, as intent on learning every freckle on her face as he once was to learn the stars.

'Like finding someone to gaze at the stars with?' she suggests in a quiet but steady voice.

'Yes.'

She turns to face him too, and their breaths mingle, and Fëanáro finds it far from unpleasant.

But he is displeased to find his heart beating fast and his fingers flexing restlessly, as if looking for something to touch, to mould. He believes in being brave, though, so he speaks again. It is not so hard when she looks like she is looking forward to listening to whatever he says.

'Nerdanel, will you travel together with me when we set out again in the morning?'

A small smile, like one hiding a secret, curves her lips. For once Fëanáro isn't in a hurry to learn a secret; he thinks he will discover it eventually, and that slowly searching will be a delight even greater than exploring new places.

'I will travel with you wherever you wish to go', she promises, and in that softly spoken promise Fëanáro feels like he already found the secret.

**Author's Note:**

> Today is the last day of Fëanorian week, and this is the last of the stories I wrote for this week. It was a big project writing these eight stories, but also one I enjoyed immensely.
> 
> Warm thanks to everyone who's been reading, and especially warm thanks for all the kudos, comments and Tumblr likes! They have brightened my week. I'd still love to hear what you thought about this story :) And as always you are welcome to visit [my Tumblr](http://elesianne.tumblr.com), it's full of Silmarillion-related stuff.


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